Give It All Away To Have Someone To Come Home To
by Ricechex
Summary: Post TRF. Not-slash, but mentions of a romance that could have been. Sherlock watches John, and wishes he could come home right now.
1. Chapter 1

_(John's wearing that damned jumper again. Last time I saw him wear it...)_

Sherlock closes his eyes behind his sunglasses, takes a deep breath through his nose (_one, two, three, four..._). He holds that breath until he can feel the burn start in his lungs (_pressure in the pleural cavity_). Then he exhales slowly, watching John round the corner at the end of Baker Street.

And then he follows.

It's been nearly three years (_three excruciating years_) and he still isn't able to come home yet (_close, so close_) and all he wants is to come home. He wants to come home (_smell Mrs. Hudson's baking and John's tea_) and surprise John (_he would be surprised, would probably punch me again, too_) and he wants; he wants to let John **scream/rage/cry/anything **as long as he can come home (_I just want someone, one person, to come home to..._) and be home for good.

Sherlock watches, carefully concealed (_wish you could just see me, John, I'm so close to you_) so that he can see John without being seen. John goes into the coffee shop (_you called it _our_ coffee shop once, do you remember, John?_) and Sherlock can recite his **large/coffee/black/plain donut** order by heart still (_because I never want to forget these things that are important to you, John_) and he can almost hear it, the moment the girl behind the counter (_large brown eyes, short blonde hair, upturned nose, freckles_) flirts with John (_my John_), asks him about his **boyfriend/partner/friend** and he'll smile sadly and say that it's all very tragic (_of course_) but that he never stopped believing in him (_you've stopped correcting people about us_).

John walks out of the shop with a small paper bag and a large travel mug of coffee. Flash of metal in the unusual sunlight, **small/thin/gold/ring** and Sherlock's heart skips a beat (_you're wearing that ring, really?_) and he has to remind himself not to move (_close, so close, soon_). John walks by, sipping his coffee.

And Sherlock follows.

His phone beeps in his pocket - loud enough that only he can hear it (_obviously_). He pulls it out and swipes his thumb over the screen.

[_He wears our father's ring well, doesn't he? -M_]

[_Your doing, no doubt. -SH_]

The phone is quiet a moment before the reply comes. [_That leather jacket does not suit you at all. You look like you've joined a biker gang. The boots don't help. -M_]

[_It's a disguise, you prat. -SH_]

Sherlock shoves the phone back in his pocket (_stupid, he doesn't understand_) and dashes off to catch up a bit (_distance, leave some distance_) and watches as John keeps walking (_where are you headed, John_), his donut still in the bag.

The answer should have been obvious (_stupid, stupid, John's so much smarter than I ever told him_) and Sherlock watches as he hands the bag (_fifty quid tucked into the roll of the paper at the top, nicely done, John, my John_) to one of the homeless network. Sherlock can't hear the conversation (_can't get closer, it would compromise everything_) but he has a feeling the situation being discussed is himself (_focused, so focused, John_) and he can imagine it when John will inevitably hear **no/sorry/no idea/can't help**, and John will smile and thank them and leave his number (_just in case of course_) and tell them they know where he is.

John hails a taxi.

And Sherlock does the same, offering double to keep a discreet distance while following that cab. The cabbie will smirk and make jokes (_jealous husband, yes yes, fine_) and he'll do it.

John gets out at New Scotland Yard and Sherlock waits across the street, setting himself into a seat at a small cafe. He rattles off an order **coffee/black/two sugars** and nothing to eat (_digestion slows me down_) while he waits. He pulls a book out of one of his pockets and pretends to read, occasionally running a hand over his short (_nearly shaved_) hair, all **prickles/softness/strange textures** under his fingers and palm, a feeling he's still not entirely used to (_I actually miss my hair, John, you'd never believe it if I told you_).

John comes out about twenty minutes later, with Lestrade (_Greg_) walking next to him. They're laughing, talking, and Sherlock frowns (_jealousy, how kind of you to show_). They start to walk towards the cafe, and Sherlock feels that moment of **fight/flight **and flight is about to win when he sticks his nose in his book a little farther, throws one leg up onto the seat next to him at the table.

They walk by without a second glance.

They get a table not far from Sherlock, just out of view but well within earshot, and his heart is pounding (_John, you're so close, I can't, I don't, I just want to..._) and he hears Lestrade. "So what's that on your hand, then? You run away and get married without tellin' any of us?"

John chuckles (_it almost sounds real, right, but not quite, and I'm sorry John_). "Nah, nothing like that. It's... sentiment." (_Sentiment? My father's ring?_)

Lestrade is quiet a moment. "It was his, then?"

"His dad's. It was left to him when his dad died, apparently. And..." Sherlock can hear it (_sentiment, stop it John, I can't_) "I just, I feel better, wearing it. I feel like he's still alive when I wear it."

"Interesting finger choice, mate." Sherlock has to force himself not to growl at the accusation in Lestrade's voice.

John laughs quietly, just a little. "Yeah, well... consider me married to my work these days." Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath (_John, you were part of my work, John, don't you see?_) and flips a page in his book.

"John, you're gonna see yourself in an early grave if you don't take some time off from this... crusade."

John sighs (_is there any sound I would rather hear every morning?_) and Sherlock can see his face, the **frown/narrowed eyes/creased forehead **and Sherlock wishes he could stop this (_just stop this_).

"Greg... I need this." His voice is low and Sherlock reaches out to grab his coffee. It's good, and he thinks back to John's coffee at 221B (_Sunday dinners with Mrs. Hudson and talking to the skull when you'd left without me realizing it_) and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tighter.

"You need to go grab a drink with me after my shift's done tonight."

"Maybe."

"No maybe about it! You need a night that doesn't involve Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes open wide and he almost turns. John's already there, though.

"You don't understand, Greg. Sherlock wasn't just my flatmate. He was my best friend. He was..."

"_Christ_, you really were in love with him, weren't you?"

Sherlock sets his mug down harder than strictly necessary (_too hard, they'll notice, please let them not notice_) and flips another page in his book.

"Problem, Greg?"

"No, no, o'course not. How can you ask me that, John?"

"It's easy when you say things like that."

"John." Lestrade sounds desperate (_for what?_) and John sounds annoyed and Sherlock is sitting there **shocked/confused/scared** because he's just heard John nearly admit to being in love with him (_I don't deserve love, John, you should know that_). "John, calm down, I didn' mean anything like that. I just... I always wondered, ya know? You two were so close... I mean..."

"No, we never..." John takes in a sharp breath. "We never slept together, or even talked about... us _being _an _us_. After a while, you get dumped over and over because your girlfriends all assume you're in love with your flatmate, you just sort of realize that they might have a point."

"And you never told him?" Lestrade's voice was quieter now (_soft and understanding, I shouldn't be surprised at Lestrade's acceptance of this idea_).

"How was I even supposed to bring it up?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at the street between the cafe and NSY. If this was going to work, he'd need to make it happen now, before John returned home.

He reached into his jacket pocket, slapped a tenner on the table, and got up, leaving quickly. He didn't look back, and no one called to him. (_Perfect._)

He hailed a cab once he'd rounded a corner (_221B Baker Street, hurry_) and used his spare key (_never changed the locks, it seems_) to open the door quickly. It was Monday. Mrs. Hudson would be at the supermarket.

He dashed up the stairs (_I miss these stairs, miss John's footsteps on them_) and into the living room. His heart wrenched as he took in the flat (_three years gone and it feels like yesterday, John, why would you keep it all like this?_) and he finds a pen and spare piece of paper.

He settles in at his desk (_nostalgia, so like sentiment, I've missed this more than I want to admit_) and begins to write.


	2. Chapter 2

When John comes home that night, he notices nothing in particular that seems out of place. But when he looks around, something just _feels _wrong.

He starts by looking around the desk, the tables, the couch and chairs and bookcases before he comes to the knife in the mantel. (_You can put back everything but dust. Dust is eloquent._) There's a letter there that John doesn't remember, sticking out at an odd angle from the rest of them. He yanks the knife out and sorts through everything.

There is no address, no stamp. Just his name scrawled across the envelope in handwriting he would recognize anywhere.

He sets the other letters and the knife down carefully on the mantelpiece, fingers trembling a little as he turns the envelope over and over in his hands.

It's light, probably only one or two pages, but it feels like the weight of the world in his hands because the only things he can think of are the facts that _Sherlock-wrote-this_ and _Sherlock-touched-this_.

_Sherlock_.

John takes a deep breath and walks over to the couch. He sits down, pulling out his phone. No messages, no missed calls. So this probably isn't Mycroft's doing then. Mycroft had been going to great lengths to try and regain even a hint of John's trust. Coming into the flat to leave a letter would not have been his current M.O. No, he'd have dragged John to his office, offered him a drink, tried to chat just like he had when he'd given John the ring that John now wore.

"_It belonged to our father, Sherrinford Holmes. Father wanted to pass the name on to Sherlock, but Mummy wouldn't have it."_

"_And their compromise was Sherlock?"_

"_Family names, John."_

"_So why are you showing me this, then?"_

"_When Father died, this was left to Sherlock."_

"_And?"_

"_And I believe that my brother would feel much better knowing it now resided with you."_

_John had stared at Mycroft then, as though he had grown a second head. "You want me to have your father's ring."_

"_I want you to have the ring that my father gave to my brother."_

_John had hesitated only a second. Then he reached out, plucked the ring from Mycroft's hand, and slipped it on. It fit perfectly. He hadn't taken it off since._

He'd been wearing the ring for nearly two years now. He touched it, twirling it around his finger, playing with it as he so often did. He imagined it must be what married men did from time to time - he'd seen them, playing with their hands while out with their _wives-or-husbands-or-partners-or-whatever_. _Would you have worn a ring, Sherlock, if we'd ever..._

He shakes his head, stopping that train of thought. _There lies madness_. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He looks at the envelope, which is currently sitting on the couch cushion next to him. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. Fills the kettle, pulls out two tea cups, sets them down, puts one back, grabs the tea, fills two tea bags, puts one in the cup, empties one back into the tin. This is his routine. Even three years later, he still begins making tea for himself and Sherlock.

Once the kettle's boiled and the tea is steeped, he brings the cup out to the living room, setting it on the coffee table and picking up the envelope again. He shook his head a few times, and opened the envelope.

He pulled a single sheet out and unfolded it. The handwriting was a bit more rushed than he was used to, but it was definitely Sherlock's. John swallowed the lump in his throat back down and began to read:

_John,_

_If you're reading this, I'm sorry. Something's gone wrong, and I'm not there to tell you the things I should have said in person - the things I should have been able to tell you, and for that, I apologize._

_I love you, John. I could never actually say it - that's why I'm writing this. Love terrifies me, John, because it makes people vulnerable, creates a weakness. Though, I believe you understand that about me better than anyone else could, and that is just one of so many things about you that makes me love you even more. A paradox, it's true._

_Moriarty knew - he saw that you, John, you were my heart. It is precisely why he targeted you. He read me too well, John, and he knew I would do anything to keep you safe. I fear that you reading this means he may have succeeded._

_Please know that everytime I walked into 221B after your arrival, I felt like I was coming home instead of simply coming back to a flat. You made it home, John. You gave me someone to come home to, and I would have given everything I had to keep you there with me always. If it were in my power to be there now, I would give it all away just to come home. Just to come back to you._

_You know I place very little value on sentiment, but there is one item that I would like very much for you to have. It's a ring of modest monetary value, but it belonged to my father, and was left for me after his death. It's currently in Mycroft's possession. I would like you to have it as something small and simple that you could keep anywhere, and I hope that when you look upon it, you think of me fondly, as I have often thought of you._

_I find myself recalling that first Christmas of ours. You were with Jeanette, and I told you your jumper was ridiculous. You scoffed at me and said it was, "festive." We laughed, and it felt right, standing there in our flat, our home, laughing with you. Only you, John._

_There's only ever been you, and I cannot ascertain why. John. My John. I've called you that more times than I could count, when I was alone, when you were on a date or at the surgery or just out and I was home._

_I wish I had been more courageous - perhaps I could have told you how I felt, and we could have had more. But please believe me when I say that I wouldn't trade a moment of it - the giggling at crime scenes and the late night Chinese dinners and the early morning morgue visits and staying up all night with you just talking or thinking or working. John, these months with you have been the best of my life. I wish I could tell you that; look into your eyes as I said it._

_I must bring this letter to a close now, before I am able to spoil everything that I have written here. But please know that I have loved you more than I had believed myself capable of. And know that you were loved by me, and you made my life a happy one - and there's no tragedy in that._

_Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock_

John looks at the letter. He turns it over, looking for more, but there isn't any. He studies the paper and finds nothing of importance about it. He looks at the ink but it is the standard fare that Sherlock had always used.

John's hands began trembling again, and he pulled the letter to his chest. It crumpled against him, but he didn't care, because reading this was like watching Sherlock fall, living three years alone and lonely and then seeing this tiny glimmer, this tiny hope...

"_After all this time, John?"_ Mycroft's voice echoed in his head head. John could picture everything. _The cabbie I shot, and the girl that died because I was more worried about Sherlock, and the pink phone and the semtex and Westwood. I was ready to die at that pool, die next to him, to save everyone else._

_I remember the blonde lady with the speckles and the comic books kids he was ready to write off and Buckingham Palace in a sheet and Irene Adler's betrayal, and I remember harpooning a dead pig and Henry Knight and the feeling of him finding me in that lab when I was scared to death - I would have kissed him if I'd had any idea He'd have kissed me back._

_I remember Moriarty's trial and his threat against Sherlock and I would have done everything, anything, if it would have kept him safe, and I remember a phone call and the image of my best friend, my whole life, falling from a building and the last thing he ever said, "Goodbye, John." And he paused for a moment, and I thought maybe he wouldn't go through with it, and then he jumped._

"_Always."_ John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.


End file.
